Pig
by anarhichas
Summary: "Damn, you're filthy," Gustav says. "Look at the mess you made, disgusting boy. Who's going to clean it up?" [Armin/OC; non-con, scat, underage]


Gustav is immeasurably glad of his timing.

The boy is squirming where he sits on the damp stone floor. With his arms forced so tight behind his back, each hand tied to grip the other arm's elbow and wrists lashed to one of the cellar's wooden support beams, he can do little more than wriggle his pretty hips. The movement wipes his unfortunately flat arse across the floor, back and forth to pick up the black layers of accumulated filth, and Gustav palms at his crotch absentmindedly as he watches. He's already getting hard. The boy obviously hadn't heard anyone come down, and he bites his full lower lip in concentration as he struggles. Really, he'd do far better in a whorehouse than the army, Gustav thinks.

The boy's face is flushed, redness visible even in the flickering light of the cheap, smoky torches. His large round eyes are tight with embarrassment. Gustav is happy enough for the moment to stand and admire them, along with the thin thighs and narrow chest. Since he's in the Scouting Corps he can't be any younger than fifteen, though he looks it by perhaps a couple of years – more if that's what one wants to believe. So cute, even just sitting there.

Gustav had been careful to slip the laxatives into his food, timed so that they will act when he starts his guard duty. It's far from an accurate science, so Gustav is thrilled that he'd got it right with this one.

The boy continues to wriggle, arching his back to shift one leg folded to sit on the heel of his foot. He looks around, spotting Gustav more through chance than any skill of observation, and the shock on his face is almost hilarious. Gustav grins as he comes forward to stand in front of him, then crouches down so they're a little closer to eye-to-eye. Closer but not close, since the boy is small and slouching and Gustav neither of these.

"Good evening," Gustav says, amiably. The boy only stares at him from behind his long pale fringe. He is holding his stillness with great effort, and suspicion and fear are bright in his eyes. "What's your name, then?"

The boy is thinking, but now he shifts uncomfortably as he does so. He is trying to determine how safe giving out his name to his captors will be, but distracted, Gustav knows, by the pressure in his sweet little arse.

In truth Gustav doesn't care one jot for this boy's name. The only reason he'd care is if he'd been ordered to find out, and in that case he'd use considerably more painful methods of extraction. But seeing the boy clench his soft jaw, the inability to concentrate written so clearly in the young lines of his face, is exquisite.

"Armin Arlert," the boy says finally, and looks away as he tries to make inconspicuous the movement as he sits down a little more firmly on his heel. Then he looks back, quickly, as if afraid of what Gustav will do when out of sight.

"Sir," Armin, or at least the boy calling himself Armin, says. Gustav doesn't know if it's purposeful flattery or merely habit from being an army brat, but either way he appreciates the word deeply, if deeply means as far down as his crotch. Armin hesitates before speaking, and his embarrassment is beautifully palatable in the soft, needy tone of his voice. "Is there a chamber pot I can use?"

Gustav waits before answering, pretending to ponder in a facade that certainly doesn't fool anyone. "No," he says finally, when he grows bored, and smiles as Armin's face breaks into something like apprehension.

"Please, I need to," Armin says, more desperate now, fumbling his words.

Gustav waits again, that mock consideration returning to his face, before repeating: "No."

Armin glances left then right, as if there might be someone else he can try to reason with. He's pegged that Gustav is only playing with him and has closed himself off, which is a little disappointing, but not too much. The best part is, after all, inevitable now.

Gustav continues to wait while Armin fights and loses the battle not to squirm. His eyes are on Armin's groin, where the friction against the floor and his own foot pull the fabric of his trousers tight against himself. There is a deep crease down the line between his arse cheeks, and further up the flattened bulge shows that his cock and balls must be painfully squashed. His thighs tremble a little.

Armin is looking pointedly to the side, and his teeth are back on his lower lip. They bite the red flesh, damp with saliva, hard.

It's all about timing – starting too early can lead to boring, embarrassing waits, but starting too late ruins all the fun. It is a good thing that Gustav is an expert by now. He waits another few moments then reaches forward, taking Armin by surprise as he grips him by the hips and drags him closer. Armin makes a noise of alarm, and pain too, if the position his shoulders are forced into is as uncomfortable as it looks. His legs are now either side of Gustav and he kicks out, but Gustav pins them down, splayed out, and kneels on them heavily. The new noise that comes from Armin's throat is definitely pain, and fear and humiliation too. It's a cute, pathetic whine, and it stirs Gustav's cock into half-hardness.

"What are you–" Armin bleats, as Gustav reaches forwards to undo the buttons on his trousers, making easy work despite his large, thick hands. Without the belts of the army gear, which had been removed along with his jacket and boots near as soon as he'd been taken, it's easy for Gustav to slip the trousers and underwear down those narrow, pale hips. He crouches for a moment to release the boy's legs, allowing Gustav to pull the trousers right down to dangle off one ankle. Then he settles back into position, hands holding the back of Armin's knees either side of him, to keep them still and Armin from scrabbling away.

The sight before him is a stunning one, so Gustav takes his time to admire it. Armin's skin is pale, though scattered with bruises, scars and strange long calluses. It's flushed a delicate pink-red. The muscle of his arse is a little flat but his cock delightfully tiny, balls smooth of the sparse pubic hair that grows between his bony thighs.

Armin bends a leg to kick him in the face. Gustav reaches out and grasps the cute cock and balls in one hand, large enough to easily envelope the entirety of them with room to spare. His fingers squeeze a warning and Armin stops immediately, chest heaving and eyes wild. He is soft and warm in the palm and Gustav massages him with his big, blunt fingertips.

With his free hand Gustav moves Armin's legs, folding them so that the heels are pressed against the back of each thigh, splayed out as wide as they'll go, an obscene angle that leaves absolutely nothing hidden. Are all child soldiers so flexible, or just this one? Gustav is uncomfortably snug in his own trousers as he drinks in the sight.

In this position it's possible to see the tight, dark ring that encircles Armin's arsehole. He can't actually tell, but Gustav imagines it quivering, taut as it strains to keep back the pressure inside. Imagination isn't enough so Gustav reaches down and places the pad of his thumb over the puckered hole, and grins at the hot, tense elasticity of it pushing back against him. He moves his thumb in small circles, not quite pressing hard enough to enter, and Armin shudders, the stringy muscle of his thighs jumping.

"Please stop," Armin begs, shaky and desperate. Under Gustav's thumb the ring of muscle seems to spasm, but doesn't release its hold.

"Eh?" Gustav says, and his voice has gone rough with desire. "I thought you needed to go?"

Gustav removes his thumb but only to take his hand to his mouth, licking the tip of his index finger generously. Then, touching it to Armin's tight little hole, he presses it in the barest of amounts.

Armin jerks back, legs folding in to his chest and together, and in the split second before he can kick out Gustav yanks on his cock and balls, hard.

Armin screams, a high pitched cry that ends in sobbing gasps for breath. Gustav is still pulling towards himself and Armin cannot do anything but stretch out with him, legs gone nerveless and weak. The strain on his shoulders must be excruciating, Gustav thinks, but doesn't really care. Pain isn't interesting to him, though he won't deny that it has its uses, particularly in times like these.

"Legs back to where they were," he orders, and as Armin scrabbles clumsily to obey he is irritated to see that there is already some shit smeared across the floor and the boy's arse. "Couldn't wait could you, disgusting pig," he remarks, and it's hard to remain annoyed when Armin's damp eyes close tight in shame, mouth a long, unsteady line turned resolutely down.

"Come on then," Gustav says, as he returns his finger to run along the rim of Armin's arsehole, back and forth. Inside he can feel the full, hot wetness of the waiting shit, as it coats his fingertip and catches under the blunt nail. He can smell it, or at least smell the amount already leaked, over-ripe, rich and heady in his throat.

Armin is trembling as he turns his face to press down into one shoulder, eyes still shut. He breathes through his nose, short, heavy and wet.

"Come on," Gustav coaxes, still stroking with his finger. "I know you're full. Let it out, be a good boy."

Armin is still fighting it, and that's more impressive than anything else, after this long. "Shh, it's all right, just relax, just let it out," Gustav says, voice turned low and soothing. It's then that, finally and with a miserable moan, Armin releases his load – at the same time Gustav strokes his thin, flaccid cock. It's probably in far too much pain to get hard any time soon, but Gustav appreciates the way it makes Armin wriggle, though his eyes are captured by the emerging shit.

It's a delightful dark brown, tinted yellow, with a fat, pungent smell. There are marks along the front of it where Gustav's finger had indented its surface while still inside Armin, and the sight of that sends a shock of excitement down Gustav's spine and into his cock. The shit is long and wet, not quite firm enough to entirely hold its shape as it smears along the floor, though that's undoubtedly the effect of the laxative. Armin's tight hole clenches to cut it off at around a hand's length, before a second shit is pushing its way out, squashing into the first. Then he stops.

"Come on, you filthy child," Gustav says, unable to stifle the groan in his voice. "I know there's more in you, let's get it out." He holds his hand so that his fingertips are all pressed together, and uses them to massage the outside of Armin's hole, slow strokes over it and the soft skin around it, lubricated with sticky, damp shit. Armin sobs once, then again after a futile attempt at holding his breath. He starts to cry earnestly as his third shit is pushed into Gustav's waiting hand.

It's hot and wonderfully solid, moulding in to the shape of his palm, the creases between his fingers. Gustav enjoys the weight of it for a long moment, then lifting his hand up he presses it firmly across the tired muscle of Armin's arse. His fingertips find the hole and work some small volume back inside, before smearing up.

Armin has found his voice through the tears. "Stop, stop it, please stop," he begs, watery and fractured words as Gustav ignores him. He takes away his hand on Armin's cock only to replace it with the one cradling the squashed remains of the third shit, which he massages into every fold of skin and curl of hair. Armin's legs unfold from their positions, heels scraping the floor, but Gustav only leans forward to place his free hand on Armin's flat, quivering stomach, and the bare legs do little more than cling to his waist, too weak to dislodge him.

"Damn, you're filthy," Gustav says. "Look at the mess you made, disgusting boy. Who's going to clean it up?"

He pulls Armin's foreskin down gently, and thumbs the thick, brown shit over the small head of the cock. He works the paste right down around the sides, and pays special attention to rub it into the slit. The smell fills up his head, overpowering. His own cock pulses, definitely uncomfortable in the confinement on his trousers, and deciding that he's waited long enough Gustav wipes the worst of the remaining shit onto Armin's thighs, tracing along the lines of each scar. Then he undoes his own trousers and pulls out his cock, hot and heavy.

He looks over Armin as he jerks off, from his cute nose and pretty mouth to the tiny cock and balls now smeared in shit thick enough it turns his pale pink and flushed red skin an uneven brown. Gustav speaks in a voice made rough with his own lust. "You're a dirty, disgusting child," he says. "Look at yourself! Did you grow up with the animals in a barn? Didn't your parents raise you a human being? You're filthy. Revolting."

The words spark fresh, vulnerable tears. Gustav groans. Fuck, this is perfect. It doesn't take long before he reaches his orgasm, heat and pleasure pouring up into his body like licks of flame, and when he comes he aims for the long, round shits lying on the floor between them. The come stripes across them, white on dark brown, and Gustav groans again. Fuck. It's only too bad Armin will be gone by tomorrow, though more always come through.

He cleans himself off on Armin's trousers, come and residual shit, before discarding them to one side. Gustav stands and takes a step back as his breathing calms, watching Armin scramble back to sit against the wall, relieving the strain on his shoulders as well as putting a few extra inches between himself and the two remaining shits. He curls up, pressing his face into his knees, and his body racks itself with sobs.

The moment is over and Gustav walks off, looking for something to wash his hands in. He'll have to come back to clean the boy up before the end of his shift, but the afterglow of his orgasm makes him lazy, and he's got plenty of time.

Upstairs he finds a water pump and rinses himself off. Then he finds some old turnip bread the previous tenants must have left, which he eats despite its staleness.

It's sometime in the early hours of the morning, and Gustav is working himself up to having to go back downstairs and do a little cleaning, when there is the sound of footsteps in the street outside. They stop by the door and Gustav frowns, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword. No one should be here – the pickup isn't meant to be until dawn at least.

The door breaks open with a crash, old wood splintering around the lock. Gustav has time only to jump up and half draw his sword before he is gutted unceremoniously, and falls down in shock and pain into a puddle of his own leaking guts and blood.

The pain is only breathtaking initially. By the time he has possession of his lungs again his body is soothed by a numb sort of coldness, which spreads out like water from a leaky bucket. The intruder, another kid in the uniform of the Scouting Corps, he'd managed to see, has already vanished downstairs. Unable to do much else Gustav blinks into the splintering floor, vaguely aware that he isn't ready to die, not yet, but he's doing it all the same. This isn't how he'd imagined it to be, either. He musters just enough energy to hate the one who killed him, then in his last thought takes some satisfaction in the fact that they'll be the one who'll have to do the clean up.

That, and at least such a pretty boy was his last.


End file.
